


Your Hand in Mine

by GraceEliz



Series: Why don't we just break the rules already? [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce is almost a functional adult, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, ICU, Lots of angst and very little fluff, Sickfic, acid attacks, kind of, saying i love you to your loved ones, soft platonic affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 14:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: There was too much emotion for him to work it out – he couldn’t see what it meant, couldn’t see past his best friend’s pain. He sank into the chair pulled onto Harvey’s right, less damaged side. Harvey was smaller than him, but not that small compared to most people.He held his head up and talked with his hands and could smile at any insult then return it so harshly you wouldn’t have known he’d dragged you through the mud until it was in the papers the day after, because his presence wrapped you up and you were hopeful that as he claimed one day the City would be safe again.





	Your Hand in Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sorry but I'm posting fluffy fics too. Tell me whether or not you cried.  
This fic is set in 1994.

“Bruce, you have to come home right now. Get on the next plane.”

“Tony, why do I-“

“Someone attacked Harv.”

“Shit, I’m on my way. Taxi! Hey how much to get to the airport in ten minutes or less? Done. I should be home by ten, what happened?”

“We don’t know. Lex is using his villainous means and those kids he picked up to track down the culprit. I got a call about him having acid burns to the face, he’s in ICU.”

“Shit, Tony. Is Alfred with him? Where’s his girlfriend – Hilda?”

“Gilda, I think it is, and she’s okay, they’re keeping her overnight. Alfie’s filling in paperwork. I’m in transit, Happy’s driving me down. I’ll get there before you, so I’ll go get you some clothes-”

“I have my duffel but you need to find me a shirt and some trousers, there should be some that fit in there somewhere. I have an image.”

"Nobody will blame you for not upholding it.”

“I know, Tony, but there’s a strength in preparing yourself.”

“Yeah. I’ll call Alfred and tell him you’re on your way. I’ll let you know when they take him into surgery proper. He’s still stabilising, I think.”

“Thanks, throw me out here. No, keep it. Family emergency. Tony, I’m at the airport, so I need to go, but I’ll keep in touch.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, tell Alfie I’m hurrying as much as I can.”

“See ya soon.”

Bruce thumbed the end call switch, taking a few precious moments to stand on the busy street and haul Parisian air into his lungs, clear some of the awful anxiety in his gut. He had the feeling he’d be throwing up on the plane before they landed at Gotham Airport – sensibly situated three miles from the city on the not-Arkham side. He checked the straps on his duffle bag – dodged a cyclist – a hurried nun – and braced himself. Bruce Wayne needed to get home.

“Hey, attendant!” he yelled on entering the foyer, not even bothering to use French, “Get me flight control. I’m Bruce Wayne and I have an emergency.” The unfortunate man scrambled to fulfil Bruce’s haughty request, spooked under the force of the almighty Wayne influence and the cold steel of Bruce’s direct attention. He had absolutely no regrets using his money to help his friends – and even fewer in using money to the detriment of the corrupt. A harried attendant guided him rapidly through some confused customs officers and onto a private jet “by courtesy of Mr Tony Stark, Sir,” to set off in a matter of minutes.

From that point, it was a long slow slog at the fastest speeds the jet could reach all the way to Gotham, over the dark stretch of the Atlantic. Bruce dragged his bag onto his back, prepared to haggle, beg or steal his way to Harvey’s side. Like hell was he letting his best friend (something a little different to a brother, someone who is loyal despite everything, someone he cannot imagine a life without) suffer alone, in a strange hospital he knows Harvey would hate, with no-one to share the bed and keep away nightmares, without the comfort of Lex and Tony snoring softly, without Alfred to wake them up for breakfast and tell them off and deliver aspirin and send them to pay their speeding fines and throw them out of the kitchen. On the other side of the three customs checks lay the mostly empty car park, a desolate patchy expanse of potholed tarmac. Alfred’s favourite Chrysler hummed in the pickup bay, the man himself taut and stiff against the bonnet. It was nice, he thought, to be able to come home to people who love him. 

“Hey, Al,” he said so quietly he thought he couldn’t be heard.

“Hello, dear boy. Come, settle your bag, we must hurry.”

Bruce obediently tossed the ragged duffel in the boot and swung down into the passenger seat – after travelling so long in Europe, it was odd to be on the right hand side and not be driving, odder still to be driving again with Alfred. It must have been four months since he was last in Gotham, four long months of undercover work in London and Paris – work he’s been using to take down a drug circle here in Gotham. Could someone have noticed him? He supposed, his head against the window in the dull silence between him and Alfred, that it was possible he’d been noticed somehow over the last two years of training and travelling. Young, troubled billionaires were permitted their foibles and eccentricities. Gotham didn’t ask questions it didn’t want the answer to. If he came home often enough to stay on people’s minds, made the news in a few far-flung countries, that was enough for the ‘royalists’ of Gotham. Royalty. His – significant other? Nothing, yet – sparring partner and teacher Talia was a Princess, was her father to be considered a King. And yet, he was nothing to many people. Another rich kid with rich kid friends high on rich kid drugs in rich kid apartments.

Gotham was its own particular circle of hell. 

Hospitals in Gotham existed somehow outside of the general circle of gloom his city broiled in. The sun would hit them more often than not, illuminating the children’s ward and the ICU through the stained glass in a kaleidoscope of jewelled light. He thought it was beautiful. 

The car pulled into the drop-off point, and Bruce leant over to kiss Alfred’s shoulder. He rested his head on the soft warm cotton and screwed up his courage. He missed Talia. Missed her voice, her courage, her hand hard in the small of his back as she shoved him into whatever task he was putting off – anything for another moment with her, for the chance of a kiss, for the glint he thought may possibly be a return of his affections but he is Icarus in his heart, Icarus in how he flies to the hot desert time and again, Icarus with his love.

Alfred murmured gently, “Take my handkerchief, boy, go on.” He did so, snuffling away the tears he hadn’t noticed. If he tried to speak he’d only cry again. Alfred pushed him gently on the shoulder, barely enough to rock him, but the touch gave him strength to swing himself up onto the pavement, and thence into the hospital. Harvey deserved all his best efforts, and crying in the car was not his best. Looking around, he caught sight of Janet Drake in the corner – she looked so tired. 

“Janet?”

She jolted upright. “Bruce! You’re here, that’s good. I’m waiting for Gilda to come down, she’s being let out.” She slumped back into the wall. “It’s been such a long night, I’m so tired.”

“Is Tony here?”

She nodded. “Just went up, he’s on the ICU. Tell her I’m ready to go when she is.” Tipping her head back, Janet’s eyes drifted shut as her words tapered away.

The corridors seemed longer than they’d ever been when he traipsed along following the purple line on the wall. He passed the little café, the now-closed restaurant, two or three little shops. Sets of doors, closed wards, gurney left in alcoves, patients and visitors sat on benches. His steps dawdled progressively slower, until he was stilled at the doors to the ICU with the fear of discovery rolling in his stomach leaving his hands shaking like leaves. What state was Harvey in? He had no idea who attacked him, no idea what the extent of the damage was. If Harvey lost part of himself or if he lost Harvey –

Oh, God. How could he do this? Walk into a private room, with Harvey pale – was he pale, or was he flushed or bruised or broken or – how could he do this? His most beloved friend, not exactly a brother, but his favourite person, who could be dying and in pain and Bruce could do nothing except hope and pray and he feels so goddamn useless, isn’t this his purpose? The training and suffering and months of complete radio silence all building up to stopping exactly this. He has failed already.

“Bruce?”

“Tony,” he gasped in relief, tumbling into his oldest brother, “Tony, oh god I failed already I haven’t even started and I-”

Tony shook him firmly by the biceps. “No, Bruce,” he said, “Get your breath back. You have not failed anything. Get changed, let’s go see out Harvey, okay?”  
The firm direction is a relief, a lifting of the pressure of decision, and Bruce will always be grateful for his brother’s ability to get his act together on his behalf because he can barely undo his buttons to put the shirt on, barely lace up the shoes Tony chose him. They’re his old favourites, worn soft and kept shiny, laces soft in his fingers. He has his armour of fine clothes now, felt a little more like Bruce Wayne of Gotham, Pretty Much Royalty, the boy who survived despite himself. Tony waited in the hall for him.

The woman on the desk quickly checked his ID, ticked him off, had him sign a form to prove he was correctly titled next-of-kin in Harvey’s files. She waved them through the next door, “Room Four, two visitors at a time.”

The first he saw was the pale Bob of Gilda’s hair, lying tousled on the bed. Then –

“Harvey?” he asked and he hadn’t expected to sound so young but he did, he really did sound young. Harvey’s limp body lay like a mummy, wrapped all down his right in creamy bandages, stained with purples and blues and the strange orange of indicator fluid and Bruce wasn’t an idiot, Bruce paid attention to lessons taught by detectives and bounty hunters, and he saw it all add up to an acid attack, an acid attack on his dearest friend who was washed out like an old rag doll. Harvey’s girlfriend raised her head wearily.

“Hello, Bruce.”

He had no words to use. She sounded so weak, bruised, wearied of the world, exhausted beyond endurance. It cracked deeper into what he had of his heart. His watering eyes stuck on the prone man in the bed, slighter than ever, sicker than they’d ever been even with fresher’s flu that time. Bruce has, unfortunately, seen healthier corpses (he pushes the thought away, Harvey is not a corpse he will never be not if he is alive to keep him safe but he didn’t did he he left and now-). He looked pleadingly at Tony when he couldn’t force anything past the crushed-tight of his throat.

“Hey Gilda,” said Tony, “I’m leaving Bruce here, okay?” He glanced at Bruce sharply, noticing the slight quiver of uncertainty and fear. “I’m going to go to the Manor, have a shower, and get more clothes, okay?” He fixed his eyes on Bruce, “You stay with Harv.”

The silence stretched between them. The door clicked shut, Tony’s footsteps retreated heavily down the hall. Would Gilda want him here? If she didn’t, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Stay anyway. “Will he-”

“We don’t know. They came from nowhere, broad daylight, just, threw a bottle of acid into his face from the side.” She threw her hands out in disgust. “Look at me, a special operative who can’t stop shaking.” Bruce hadn’t known she’d been in the military. “I’m glad you’re here, Bruce. He’s been crying for you.” She leant over, covering Harvey’s unbandaged hand with hers, kissing his nose and lingering a moment, lips moving in prayer or supplication or wordless nothings. It would be a good photo, he thought: blue and yellow glass casting colour onto the white walls, the near-dead stillness of Harvey’s features and Gilda silhouetted against the window, not even a whole inch between the two. A delicate moment. Melancholic. Final act of an opera. She rose up, drawing herself together like tightening stitches on the seams of her composure. A woman against the city skyline illuminated in yellow.

“Has he woken up?”

“He should,” muttered Gilda, “Sooner rather than later. He’ll be in pain. I need to speak to Lex – you’ll be alright alone?”

Bruce nodded. He hoped he would. As Gilda slid out of the door he allowed himself to think again about her. What sort of operative? Why was she going to talk to Lex? It hadn’t missed Bruce that she stood like a soldier despite grief and pain. There was too much emotion for him to work it out – he couldn’t see what it meant, couldn’t see past his best friend’s pain. He sank into the chair pulled onto Harvey’s right, less damaged side. Gilda had been resting her fingers on Harvey’s wrist, feeling his pulse thread almost imperceptibly. He looked small. Harvey was smaller than him, but not that small compared to most people. He held his head up and talked with his hands and could smile at any insult then return it so harshly you wouldn’t have known he’d dragged you through the mud until it was in the papers the day after, because his presence wrapped you up and you were hopeful that as he claimed one day the City would be safe again.

Bruce had missed him the most when he was away.

He gently slid his large calloused hand under Harvey’s, checking that he wouldn’t be restricting optimum blood flow or anything, curled his long fingers around to rest on Harvey’s palm. The silence felt oppressive, like too many blankets, like the City Herself leant down on them. Harvey had always liked music, any music, much like the rest of them, always the first to dance or sing or belt out operas in the kitchen first thing in the with no regard for the quality of his voice or still-sleeping family. He wasn’t bad, but they all knew Tony sang best. They should bring him in a record player or a radio. Classical when it was dark, dance music for bright weather. Harvey would like that.

Bruce carefully reached into his pocket. He’d lifted, on the way, a bottle of silver nail enamel. Of course he’d paid for it, but he hadn’t wanted seen. The bright silver glint was hope, to them, a far cry from the lurking gloom Harvey was born from. He shook the bottle, trying to decide if he had to open a window. He wouldn’t take long: Harvey only had one free hand to paint. Painting each others nails had long since become their group’s way of sticking it to society. Gotham’s favourite son hanging around with a Narrows slum-child, nails flashing defiant silver, eyes outlined in the darkest eyeliner.

Screw you, Gotham. Bruce couldn’t stress that enough.

The bottle was finally fully shaken, bright enamel ready to paint. He settled Harvey’s hand (the right one, why had they gone for his left side) into his palm. He could still fold the top knuckle of his fingers over Harvey’s – it felt like being a child again, holding his palm to his friend’s in no small wonder at the slender smallness of him. He started on the little finger. 

“You’re not weak, Harv,” he croaked, “but you’re still small. D’you remember starting school?” He huffed wetly. “You got picked on for your size but decked him. Great things Harvey. We’re going to build our City of dreams. Soon. When your therapy is done.” He had to re-dip the brush, tapping drips back into the bottle. He finished the last finger and thumb in silence before setting the polish on the bedside table. There were a few things on it already so he doubted the tiny bottle would get in the way of the nurses. The last step in the ritual was to blow gently on the nails, because they were idiots and always left painting nails too late and had to rush. Alfred got murderous angry when they smudged the paint on things.

Bruce’s hand shook as he painted his own nails. The silver was smudged but it would do, it was there, they were united again. Them against the world in protection of this godforsaken hellhole they’d claimed as theirs so long ago. He set his hands on the soft quilt below Harvey’s again and set his head a little further down the bed so he could look up at Harvey’s bandaged face. Hold hands, Alfred used to tell them, hold hands so you don’t get lost when people are carrying you with the crowd.

Bruce clung as tight as he dared.

He didn’t want to be lost alone.


End file.
